


Why Do All These Marnei Keep Fucking Our Arse?

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Alcoholism, Bukkake, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Cutting Clothes Away, Dubious Consent, Fight Sex, Fights, Floor Sex, Hate Sex, Homophobic Language, M/M, Post-Canon, Setheris Being an Asshole, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7969270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>His ears had never been so tight to his head, yet they pulled in even tighter as he felt Aisava straddle his hips. The marnis leaned down to hiss in Setheris’s left ear, “Wilt be the passive one tonight. Tell us, will it be thy first time taking it in the arse?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Even as his traitorous cock throbbed at the words, Setheris grated out from between his teeth, “We will have thee flogged in front of the entire Court—”</em>
</p><p><em>His threat cut off in another sharp yelp as Aisava jerked his head backward. “No, </em>Osmer Nelar. We<em> will have </em>thee,<em> here on this floor, now. As so obviously want’st.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Do All These Marnei Keep Fucking Our Arse?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [shadow_lover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover) for looking this over for me! Art the best.

Setheris ground his teeth. The hour was growing ever later, and his temper ever fouler. Surely, _His Serenity_ had not forgotten about the old paperwork? Which the Liaison to the City of Cetho would need if he were ever going to sort out the jurisdictional boundary between City and Court in the Silkworkers’ District? A matter which City _and_ Court wanted resolved as expeditiously as possible?

He tossed back the last mouthful of metheglin in his glass. It wasn’t nearly enough to soften and smooth all the hard, sharp edges in Setheris’s head. He poured himself yet another glass from the decanter.

Hesero was at Court, where he was forbidden to go. As she so frequently was these days. That is, when she wasn’t in Zhaö. _I have my social obligations, Setheris, and my charitable ones,_ she’d said before departing a few days before. _Both were of great comfort to me while wert in Edonomee. I must not be a fair-weather friend, or drop my obligations into the lap of another, now that art home in Cetho again._

 _Ah,_ he thought, grinding his teeth harder, _but casting off thy marital obligations is another story altogether. And when dost so_ graciously _permit me my rights as thy husband, I might as well be making love to a dead carp._

That moonwitted, god-addled hobgoblin. It wasn’t enough for him to have sent Setheris and Hesero away from Court, oh, _no._ He’d _had_ to tell her about the incident with the firescreen. Why? It had happened nearly five years ago. It had never happened again. And Setheris had been appalled at his own behavior, even before the metheglin had worn off. If Hesero would even try to understand what it was like to exist, “live” not being an applicable word, for ten years in that moldering heap on the edge of nowhere with only a sniveling half-breed and a few servants for company, she would understand why he’d spent most of those ten years as far from sober as he could manage…

“Osmer Nelar?”

“What is it, Hedret?” Setheris snapped, not turning around to look at the manservant.

“We are sorry to disturb you,” Hedret said with a deference so overweening that Setheris burned to punch him in the gut for it. “But the Imperial Secretary has arrived with the paperwork you requested.”

Without quite turning his head, Setheris flicked a glance at the clock on the mantle to his right: half past midnight. _Finally,_ he thought, and his anger wrapped around that word like thread around a bobbin, gathering bulk and strength. He did not reply to Hedret at first, merely bared his teeth at the darkened window over the Istandaärtha and continued to drain his glass. Let Hedret stand there awaiting Setheris’s order: that was his job. Let _the Imperial Secretary_ wait, too.

Finally, a full twenty seconds after Hedret had fallen silent, Setheris slammed the empty glass to the lovely verashme wood desk and growled, “Send him in.”

“Osmer,” Hedret murmured. Setheris heard the squeak of his heels turning on the parquet in the hallway.

 _The Imperial Secretary._ In sooth, that jumped-up courier who’d attached himself like a hookworm to Maia even before they’d all landed at Court nearly a year before. Convenient, that, given how soon afterward the Lord Chancellor’s office imploded. Not that Ulevis Chavar hadn’t richly deserved his downfall, of course. But Setheris wondered whether that simpering little marnis who had labored under Chavar — in _all_ senses of the phrase, Setheris was sure — had played any role in it.

Hedret returned to the drawing room with said marnis in tow. Aisava, the man’s name was, Setheris remembered hazily. If you could call him a man, between that all-too-pretty face and how couriers were known to comport themselves. “The Imperial Secretary, Osmer,” Hedret said. He bowed and vanished, presumably to his bed for the night.

“Good evening, Osmer Nelar,” Aisava said. His ears were rigid, as if holding them up took him effort. His face and eyes were carefully blank, but the latter were bleary. “We apologize for the lateness of the hour —”

“What _shouldst_ apologize for, Mer Aisava,” Setheris cut in, feeling the anger winding tight in him again, “is that hast waited until this hour to make thine appearance. We have been awaiting the arrival of a messenger from the Untheileneise Court since well before dinner. Wert roused from a tavern when the paperwork promised to the Liaison’s Office was finally remembered?” His lips drew back. “Or, perhaps, from another’s bed?”

Aisava let just a fraction of a beat go by, the barest minimum that could not be deemed insolence, before he said, no less steadily than before, “We understand you have been waiting, Osmer. As it transpired, the paperwork is much older than had initially been believed: parchment that dates back to the reign of Edrethelema IV. It was never transferred to an adequately dry and insect-proof archive once the construction of the Untheileneise Court had been completed, and so it has begun to crumble. We could not permit it to leave the premises of the Alcethmeret, but we asked one of our undersecretaries to copy it out for you.”

“‘Copy it out’?” Setheris repeated dumbly.

“Yes, Osmer.” From under his pale-grey autumn jacket, which bore a small Drazhadeise crest on the left breast, Aisava pulled out a scroll of papers secured with a white ribbon and that barbaric cat-serpent seal. “In addition, our undersecretaries have been so busy that the one in question had not the chance to complete the copy, nor was the ink on the last page dried, until less than half an hour ago. As we understood the importance of conveying it to you and that you had been waiting for it, we took that task upon ourselves.”

Setheris looked down his nose at the scroll and snapped, “Copies are no good to us.”

That got a blink out of the smooth little catamite, at least. “Osmer?”

“We need the originals, Mer Aisava. How can we verify the signatures of men who are centuries dead unless we have seen them for ourself? How do we know thine undersecretary did not introduce any errors into the copies?”

“Again, Osmer, we could not release the originals to you, nor to anyone else,” Aisava said patiently, as if instructing an especially stupid child. “They constitute an irreplaceable piece of Ethuverazheise history, if a minor one. We would not even let the undersecretary touch them with her bare hands. Workers in gloves laid each page under a heavy sheet of clear glass, which she then used as a writing surface, before transferring them to suitable storage.”

“And was her work checked at all, before it was deemed complete?” Setheris demanded, looking down at Aisava. He could feel the offense smoldering in him, uncurling like smoke, filling his spine and shoulders.

The self-impressed little cushion-biter lifted his chin about an inch. “Osmer, she is a highly accurate stenographer who writes in a clear hand, which is why she was chosen for the task.”

“So the answer is no, then. Meaning thou expectest us to vouch for the text of documents whose originals we have never seen, copied over by one undersecretary and checked by no one else.”

The muscles in Aisava’s face were beginning to look rather strained. Good. “Unfortunately we were all pressed for time, Osmer, but — ”

“Then perhaps shouldst simply have had the originals brought to us between sheets of glass, carried by as many servants as needed to bear the weight!” Gratified when Aisava finally let the mask slip to stare at him in shock, Setheris continued, letting his voice rise further: “Or shouldst have sent us a message much earlier in the day, requesting we come to the Alcethmeret ourselves to copy out the text!”

Aisava drew in a deep breath. “Osmer. As you are aware, His Serenity has barred you from Court. Your presence in the Alcethmeret, in particular, would never be permitted.”

“The feelings of _His Serenity_ do not take precedence over the requirements of city law,” Setheris growled, drawing himself up higher, thrusting his shoulders out. Gods, the cheek of this effeminate common upstart, to lecture him on what he was and was not permitted to do!

“Which is why, Osmer, we dedicated as much undersecretarial time as we could to produce this complete copy for you,” Aisava said with infuriating neutrality and calm, holding out the scroll again.

Setheris knocked it out of his hand with a broad, loose sweep of his own. It fell to the carpet, rolled several inches, and lay still. Aisava’s pale eyes flicked toward it, then back toward Setheris. In that short interval they had gone frosty.

“Thy scroll, as we have already stated, is inadequate for our purposes,” Setheris said in a voice like thunder to the far west of the Edonara. He stepped forward, within a few inches of Aisava, to stare down hard at him. “And thou overstepp’st thyself. Less than a year ago, wert still in leathers, carrying messages, grabbing thine ankles for any who asked — and now presumest to lecture a cousin of the Drazhada on what he may or may not do? In his own apartments, no less?”

That insolent little light-boots stared back up at him, lips tight, ears starting to flatten. He took a long moment before he answered, but his voice was, still, insufferably controlled. “We presume nothing, Osmer Nelar. We simply pointed out that your proposed solution was not tenable because Edrehasivar would not have granted you permission to come to the Alceth—”

A dark joy exploded deep within Setheris as the back of his hand connected with Aisava’s mouth, signet ring catching on his lip. The impact spun his head full quarter of the way around on his neck.

When it came back around, there was a flash of naked hatred in his eyes; he quickly he recovered his self-control, but his ears were now fully pinned back and he didn’t bother to bring them forward. Blood dripped from his lower lip, stirring a nameless and savage thing in Setheris’s belly. One drop fell upon the Drazhadeise jacket, the stain blossoming. Aisava did not put his hand to the wound, which Setheris found himself grudgingly admiring.

“Edrehasivar will not be pleased to hear that you have raised your hand to a member of the Imperial household,” Aisava said.

 _“Edrehasivar_ will, we are sure, be most put out that he will have to do without the service of thy mouth for a night or two,” Setheris sneered. He stepped in even closer, forcing Aisava to back up against the wall of the drawing room, which produced an unexpected twitch in Setheris’s cock. “Canst still offer up thine arse to him, canst not? Tell us, which was the deciding factor in his retention of thee for his household?”

It was almost amusing, watching the little shirt-lifter square his shoulders and raise his head. As if he were a match for Setheris. “Osmer, we say this not as a threat but as a genuine warning: you tread on thin ice. As secretary to the emperor we are under his protection, and therefore an assault on us can be legally deemed an assault on him. We are not minded to make an issue of your insults—”

“Because there’s truth in them? Because Chavar enjoyed the sight of thee bent bare-arsed over his desk? Because our ugly half-breed cousin enjoys having a pretty, full-blooded elven cock-sucker at his beck and call? Which has all been to thine advantage, has it not?”

Aisava’s nostrils flared. “We were initially not going to say as much, but, in sooth, we are not minded to make an issue of them because we have been called much worse by much better.”

Setheris’s chin was less than half an inch away from the little deviant’s forehead now. “Oh, we are quite sure thou hast,” he hissed, “quite possibly as said better was sunk in thee to the balls.”

One fine eyebrow lifted. “We are truly sorry, Osmer, that no courier has ever willingly made such arrangements with you.”

Setheris’s smoldering outrage burst into open flame.

The skin of Aisava’s throat was smooth under his thumbs as he dug them in, his fingers wound tightly around the marnis’s slender neck. Aisava’s eyes shot wide. His hands flew to Setheris’s wrists, gripping them with surprising strength. What finally broke Setheris’s hold was the knee that slammed into the spot where his groin met his left thigh, missing his balls only because Setheris stumbled. He grunted in pain and righted himself. Immediately he lashed out again, getting one hand snarled in the little cock-sucker’s braids and the other fisted in the collar of his shirt.

Aisava drove the toe of one boot hard into Setheris’s belly. Setheris howled. The force of the kick broke his grip on Aisava’s collar, but not on his hair. Sloppily, with too little force and at a suboptimal angle for inflicting maximum pain, he managed to yank Aisava’s head forward, then slam it against the wall. One of Aisava’s tashin sticks went flying, and a shelf full of the little ceramic figurines Hesero collected rattled above them. Aisava got his head turned back around with Setheris still half-grasping his braids. His eyes were wide, the pupils tiny, and his lips were drawn back in a snarl as he launched his entire body upward and outward.

The carpet in the drawing room was Barizheise, surpassingly soft, a marriage-gift from one of Hesero's many cousins. It did wretchedly little to cushion the blow to Setheris’s back and the back of his head as he landed on it, Aisava atop him — a surprisingly solid and heavy shape for his size. And warm. And his groin flush against Setheris’s own.

Aisava raised his shoulders and head. His eyes were wild, ears back, face flushed; his hair was flying loose from his braids and remaining tashin stick, and he breathed raggedly through his mouth. Suddenly he blinked, his brows went up, and he snapped his mouth shut. A moment later, the corners of it turned up, and his eyes took on a strange look.

“Why are we not surprised,” he said, without the rising inflection of a question.

Setheris stared at him. What did the little capon mean by that? Also, why was the room spinning? He couldn’t have hit the back of his head _that_ hard when he fell, could he have?

“It’s not always the most contemptuous ones,” Aisava said, with a huff that sounded very much like a laugh. “But, more often than not, it is.”

“What on earth art going on about?” Setheris groaned.

Aisava answered him by moving backward, planting himself on Setheris’s thighs, and cupping Setheris’s cockstand through his trousers.

Setheris groaned again, torn between the unwanted flare of pleasure and complete bewilderment as to when, exactly, he’d become fully hard. Both these feelings managed to eclipse his sense of outrage that the little prick-rider’s effrontery had now progressed far beyond mere insolence.

“We rather doubt, given that this drawing room reeks like a meadery, thou wouldst be able to maintain this for very long,” Aisava said conversationally as he squeezed Setheris’s clothed cock again. “Not that it seems terribly impressive through the fabric, and we also doubt wouldst know what to do with it.”

 _That presumptuous little whore — and is he actually using the_ familiar _to me?_ Setheris tried to prop himself up on his elbows, though it made the room spin harder. His stomach lurched a little. It lurched more strongly as Aisava grabbed him by the hips and, with shocking ease, flipped him over onto his front. He yelped as surprisingly powerful fingers wound into his braids, then pushed his face down into the carpet and ground it in. Soft as it was, Setheris's nose and cheeks stung as if it were coarse wool.

His ears had never been so tight to his head, yet they pulled in even tighter as he felt Aisava straddle his hips. The marnis leaned down to hiss in Setheris’s left ear, “Therefore, wilt be the passive one tonight. Tell us, will it be thy first time taking it in the arse?”

Even as his traitorous cock throbbed at the words, Setheris grated out from between his teeth, “We will have thee flogged in front of the entire Court—”

His threat cut off in another sharp yelp as Aisava jerked his head backward. “No, _Osmer Nelar. We_ will have _thee,_ here on this floor, now. As so obviously want’st.”

“How durst thou!” Setheris barked. He began to struggle again, less out of any realistic hope of freeing himself than because the urge to pummel and finish choking the life out of Aisava was pumping through his veins like metheglin.

Aisava drove the futility of it home by grabbing his braids and grinding his face into the carpet again. And then he chuckled, the sound bitter and filthy all at once. “Art not a subtle man, Setheris Nelar. Tell us, dost stroke thyself off at night, imagining courier boys servicing lords?”

“Shut thy filthy mouth,” Setheris muttered, his cock stealing the heat from his words.

“No, please, gratify our curiosity for us.” Setheris could feel the hard shape of Aisava digging into his spine. “Which role didst imagine thyself in — that of the lord? Or of the courier boy?”

“Neither, thou degenerate. In case hast not heard, we are married, and to a most beautiful woman at that.”

Aisava laughed outright. “Most of the lords who propositioned us when we were a courier were also married. And more than a few of them were not seeking an arse to plough but to have their own ploughed. Speaking of arses, hast a surprisingly shapely one for a desk-bound drunkard of thy years.” He leaned back and squeezed one buttock and then the other, with a lingering, appraising touch that made fire shoot through Setheris’s groin.

As alarmed at the fresh burst of arousal as he was at the indignity of being groped like a serving-maid, Setheris gave a little yell of indignation and tried to rise again. “Lie still,” Aisava snapped, flattening his hand between Setheris’s shoulder blades. “We derive no pleasure from causing harm, but thou struck’st us and tried’st to strangle us earlier — and wert already none too dear to us from the moment we met thee in Edonomee. Even less so once we learned how ill thou used’st His Serenity when he was a child. We will try not to hurt thee… too much.”

He attempted to slide his hands under Setheris’s waist, apparently to undo the fastenings of his trousers. Setheris, not minded to help him at all in this, did not raise his midsection from the floor. Within ten seconds Aisava gave up and ordered, “Turn over.”

“Go fuck thyself,” Setheris snarled, feeling bile-laced metheglin wash up his throat and into the back of his mouth.

Aisava sighed and said nothing in reply, just eased himself backward to sit on Setheris’s thighs. Then Setheris heard a long, sharp tearing noise, and the drawing-room air was cool against the bare skin of his buttocks. “What — didst cut our _trousers_ open?!” he squawked, making yet another pointless attempt to rise. “We will sue thee for the cost of new ones!”

“Worry not, we will reimburse thee for the trousers _and_ the smallclothes,” Aisava said in an exasperated singsong. There was another tearing noise as he widened the rent in the seat of Setheris’s trousers with his hands. “Not a bad view, if a bit hairy for our taste.” He resumed his fondling of Setheris’s arse, skin to skin now, cupping and rolling both buttocks lasciviously.

Setheris’s left arse-cheek suddenly exploded in crimson pain, and he squawked again. Aisava slapped the right one with no less force. “Had we anticipated this at all we’d have brought a switch with us,” he snarled. “It would not have nearly paid thee back for all the times beat’st His Serenity, of course, but it would have been gratifying nonetheless.”

“We _never_ took a switch to him,” Setheris growled, suddenly — and ludicrously, some part of him realized — offended at the idea. “Nor any other implement.”

“No, thou simply struck’st him open-handed time and time again. One time knocking him into a firescreen and scarring him for life. So merciful, thou wert.” Aisava punctuated the words with several more punishing slaps to each cheek, pricking tears into Setheris’s eyes. He buried his face in the carpet to blot them away and to muffle his groans.

“A greatly improved view, now.” Aisava once more recommenced groping Setheris’s arse, which ached and stung under the attentions. Setheris couldn’t decide it if were better or worse when he felt his buttocks be pulled apart and a finger stroke his hole. It was not painful, but it felt strange, and, worse, it emphasized how very vulnerable he was. He whined, low and anxious.

“Hast oil?” Aisava demanded suddenly.

“… oil,” Setheris repeated.

“Yes, oil. We did promise not to hurt thee overly much, but if canst live without that nicety—”

“The scent-lamp,” Setheris interrupted hastily. “There should be oil in the base of it.”

“We thank thee,” Aisava said ironically, and Setheris felt the weight of him lift from the backs of his legs. “Do not go far.”

As if he could. Rationally, he knew the floor wasn’t moving under him, but it felt so; given that Aisava seemed in no panic to escape, the motion was probably not due to an earthquake striking Cetho. Setheris’s groin and belly still throbbed with Aisava’s earlier blows, the entire back of his body smarted from having hit the floor earlier, and his buttocks stung even more fiercely. That he remained hard in spite of all this, especially given his age and how much metheglin was in his blood, could only have been some perverse joke the gods were playing on him.

The smell of the oil, primarily lily and lemon, was suddenly thick on the air. Hesero liked to scent the drawing-room so, when she deigned to stay home with Setheris, that was. Setheris himself never lit the scent-lamp, and thus its reservoir always retained oil in plenty.

Aisava’s weight settled back down upon Setheris’s thighs. “Presumably Osmerrem Nelaran is fond of this scent?” he asked, as if they were exchanging pleasantries at a dinner party.

“Art not fit to speak even the title of our honorable lady, blackguard,” Setheris said, his voice slurring.

“We meant only to praise its fineness, Setheris. We pray thee convey our compliments to her on her taste.”

Whatever biting retort Setheris was about to make flew out of his head as he felt something cold against the back of his left thigh. It was a blade, likely the same one that Aisava had used to make the initial cut in Setheris’s trousers.

Setheris’s entire body went stiff. “What—”

“Be _quiet,”_ Aisava hissed.

More tearing noises, more cool air on Setheris’s flesh, the sudden absence of Aisava’s weight again. When he felt his legs being pulled apart, he realized the little degenerate had sliced the crotch and thighs of both trousers and smallclothes to ribbons in order to facilitate it. His muscles tightened once more at the feel of Aisava’s oiled forefinger caressing his hole, beginning to insinuate itself inward, and he whimpered.

“Don’t clench,” Aisava said sharply. “Push out against our finger.”

Setheris screwed up his face and tried to obey. It felt as though he were relieving himself. He wished he hadn’t thought of that simile when the outermost joint of Aisava’s finger fully embedded itself within him.

“Good,” Aisava said, and there was an odd, soft breathlessness to the word that sent heat swirling through Setheris again. Aisava continued to work the finger inward, taking his time, until his knuckles brushed the cleft of Setheris’s arse. Setheris grunted.

“Not enough for thee?” Aisava murmured, a sly note in his voice. “We thought wert purely virgin in this part of thine anatomy. Art in sooth accustomed to taking much more?”

“Thou art scum,” Setheris said. “Utter scum.” He’d intended to snap the insult out, but his voice was slow, heavy, thick.

Aisava’s response was to introduce a second finger. As womanishly slender and delicate as his fingers were, two of them at once inside Setheris produced a stretching sensation with an unpleasant burn to it. Setheris grunted again and squirmed. “Be still, that we do not injure thee,” Aisava said, but it was again in that breathy, intent voice.

When Setheris stilled, Aisava began to work both fingers in and out of him, slowly and repeatedly. After a few thrusts it did not hurt as much, but that was about all Setheris could recommend of it. “Marnei enjoy this sort of thing?” he demanded skeptically.

“Among other things, yes,” Aisava all but hummed. “Dost not?”

“Might’st as well be fingering our nose, for all the pleasure in it,” Setheris said peevishly.

Aisava said nothing, but Setheris could feel the tip of one finger shift inside him, and — he shrieked. _Like a woman,_ he thought, but he was panting too hard, nails digging into the carpet bed, to feel very much shame.

“Wert saying?”

Setheris wasn’t sure which he wanted more: to rise, turn around, and backhand the smug expression Aisava was most assuredly wearing clear off his face; or to lie on the carpet like a cast-off ragdoll for the rest of the night as long as Aisava kept doing … whatever it was he’d just done. Then he did it again, and Setheris shrieked again, although with less of an element of surprise. The third time, he thrust his hips against the carpet, and he regretted that he had not let Aisava take his trousers off him. The fibers rubbed up against his nipples, too, through the silk of his shirt, and he wished it were off him as well.

“We see,” Aisava said, his voice husky. “How little it takes to turn thee into what despisest most: a whimpering, wriggling marnis. Just a little oil, and an experienced finger. Although perhaps having thine arse warmed has helped. When beat’st His Serenity at Edonomee, didst wish, secretly, that another, stronger man would do the same to thee?”

“We… we will kill thee by our own hand, someday,” Setheris rasped out, and then Aisava moved his finger again and Setheris nearly sobbed. He was all but fucking the carpet by now, and he had a vague idea of how obscene his reddened buttocks must look as he undulated against it. Why that thought made him even harder, he did not understand.

Then Aisava’s finger was gone, and Setheris chewed his lower lip to stifle an embarrassing whine of deprivation. Aisava uttered another knowing chuckle. “Our finger has had quite the salutary effect on thee. Art ready for something a bit more substantial, we think.” There was the rustle of clothing, then the quiet sound of flesh being oiled — and then Aisava’s hand on Setheris’s right hip, and something blunt and solid brushing against his hole.

“Uh,” Setheris said, and he had not the vaguest idea what he had even meant to convey by that utterance.

“Again: relax thy muscles. Breathe deeply. Lik’st our finger inside thee well enough, so once art used to the sensation, shouldst like this even more.” And then that … that presumptuous _filth_ ran his hand _lovingly_ down Setheris’s back. “Any man can fuck any other man, Setheris, just as he can a woman. Not every man can make it good for the other. We promise, we will make it _memorably_ good for thee.”

“I… we hate thee,” Setheris said thickly over the sudden lump in his throat. He thought unexpectedly of Maia’s very same words to him, less than a year before.

“It is of no import, wilt be screaming our name before long,” Aisava said airily — and he began to press in.

It was like having the tip of Aisava’s finger inside him had initially been — a strange intrusion, unpleasantly reminiscent of evacuation. The little whore’s cock was likely not very large, Setheris imagined; otherwise it would not have fit at all. But it was certainly greater in girth than two of his fingers combined, and the searing sensation returned in earnest, making Setheris whine and clutch at the carpet fibers.

“Shh, shh.” Aisava was stroking Setheris’s back again as he drove inexorably inward. “It will not hurt for very long… little dove.”

Setheris’s head came up in indignation. “‘Little dove’? May Osreian unroot an oak tree and drive it up thine arse.”

“Truly, hast a predilection for projecting thy shameful wants onto others,” Aisava said breathlessly. A moment later, Setheris felt soft, fine hairs tickling the inflamed flesh of his buttocks, the solidity of a body against them, and a softer, warmer touch to the underside of his balls. He was full, _so_ full, and every inch of flesh inside his arse felt scraped raw despite the oil. He groaned again.

Aisava was silent for the moment but for his panting. Then he began to withdraw, the friction stinging Setheris anew. This time Setheris gnawed at the carpet fibers to stifle his whine.

“Ah… art such a tight fit,” Aisava groaned. “We have not enjoyed such an accommodating arse in years, perhaps since the time we fucked the very lonely heir of a baron… ” As he trailed off, only his cockhead remained within Setheris, but he began to work his way inward once more.

On the third ingress, Setheris noticed, it was becoming less painful. On the fourth, it seemed fairly tolerable, if hardly rapturous. On the fifth, he felt Aisava tilt his hips — and Setheris shrieked again.

“We told thee,” Aisava said, sounding smug even though he gasped the words. He plunged in again, sending the pleasure radiating through Setheris’s groin, down even into his thighs. Setheris pressed his face to the carpet again and made incoherent sounds.

“If only _thy honorable lady_ … could see thee like this,” the loathsome deviant huffed, driving steadily in and out of Setheris. “Or, perhaps… the entire Court. Noble blood… kin to the Drazhada… Liaison to the City of Cetho… legal scholar… squirming and whimpering on the carpet like a common whore… as a lowborn servant fucks him into it.” Setheris opened his mouth to retort but all that came out was a desperate whine.

Aisava caught his breath as he rammed himself into Setheris once again, then continued: “And his arse beaten like a schoolboy’s, at that.” One hand propping himself up as he continued to thrust, he wedged the other between their bodies and delivered a vicious pinch to Setheris’s right buttock that drew a howl out of him, even as Aisava’s cockhead brushed against that sensitive spot inside him. When his vision cleared, Setheris wondered for the first time that Hedret had not woken up to the racket going on in the drawing-room. Or had the man simply decided he was not paid well enough to intervene, then covered his ears with his pillow?

Aisava was now shuttling hard and fast out of Setheris, one hand on Setheris’s right hip. Setheris found himself moving in tandem, meeting each thrust, grinding his covered nipples and cock against the carpet. His balls were flush to his body, loose strands of his hair sticking to his forehead, his shirt and the remnants of his trousers soaked with the strong-smelling sweat of drink. Even through it he could smell Aisava’s sweat, fresher and cleaner than his own but unquestionably that of a man, calling to something in Setheris’ blood that had never been roused before — 

His climax scoured through him before he was ready for it. He had enough clarity of mind to stifle his abject, undignified yell against the carpet, but there was no way to prevent his seed from filling in the space between his cock and what remained of his smallclothes. All his muscles went slack and he collapsed to the floor just as he heard Aisava’s stuttered moaning behind him. Suddenly his arse was empty again. Something hot and sticky splashed over his buttocks, stinging them a final time, and soaked the lower back of his shirt.

For a long moment, he heard nothing but gasping and panting behind him, then the slowing down and evening out of Aisava’s breath. Setheris convinced his fingers they no longer needed to hold onto the carpet for dear life, pushed himself gingerly to his knees — a slow, agonizing process — and managed to get his feet beneath him. It took even more time and effort to rise to them completely.

The depraved little guttersnipe was looking up at him as if he stood over Setheris and not the other way around. He had tucked his cock away, and he had also found his missing tashin stick and managed to arrange his hair back into some semblance of propriety. “We do hope,” he said with patently feigned solicitousness, “that no seed soaked through thy trousers into that lovely carpet. It might never have come out, and wouldst not want any servants to know of it in the first place. Not to mention, of course, thy honorable lady.”

“Thou… thou art the vilest, most debauched dregs of the courier fleet, no matter what device thou wear’st nowadays,” Setheris gritted out as he felt Aisava’s seed trickle down the cheeks of his abused arse. “Thou hast confirmed, in one evening, every commonplace about couriers that has ever been heard.”

Aisava smirked up at him. “Quite rich, coming from a man who has just been utterly fucked out by the alleged ‘dregs’ of the fleet. An interesting experience, we must say, though we have no great desire to repeat it. We prefer our bedpartners sober, all in all. Also, we prefer those who are not hateful, child-beating wretches. Wouldst like us to give thee recommendations for the better marnis taverns in Cetho? Or, if art not so dainty, the worst ones?”

“If… if ever tell’st anyone — _especially_ the Emperor — what … what happened here tonight, we will not only kill thee, but will skin thee alive and wear thy tanned hide as new trousers.” The threat did not come out quite as menacingly as Setheris had hoped, what with the room tilting again and his stomach jolting.

Oh, did he wish to slap that broad, knowing smile off the dissolute little cock-sucker’s face. “If we learned anything in our courier days, Osmer, it was how to keep our counsel. We have been … intimate, shall we say, with far more powerful lords than thee, and we have never revealed their identities to anyone else. In any event, it is enough for us to know that wilt remember this night for years to come, often while pulling at the pathetic tashin stick thou deem’st a cock.”

“Get out,” Setheris growled as he staggered to his desk and leaned his weight upon it.

“Hopefully the memories will not crowd upon thine intimacies with _thy honorable lady_ — ”

The bile rose in Setheris’s throat again. _“Get. Out.”_

Aisava gave him a bow full of mocking flourishes. “We will have recompense for the trousers and smallclothes delivered to thee within the next few days. A good evening to thee… Osmer.” Then he turned on his heel. Setheris heard his smart boot-steps against the parquet diminish with distance until the door closed snugly behind him.

Setheris sagged against the desk. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into his chair and pour himself another drink. But, he remembered, he had seed on his body. His own seed. And Aisava’s seed.

_Filthy little pervert._

It took considerable time, effort, and concentration, but he got himself into the washroom, wetted a cloth from the ewer, soaped it, and cleansed himself. Not only of seed but of rancid sweat, though he could still smell both in his nostrils.

He sighed. It didn’t matter. Hesero was to be at Court for the rest of the week. Hedret would not overstep his place. Setheris would burn washcloth, trousers, and smallclothes before he went to sleep. And he would _remain_ asleep well into the morning. When he finally graced his office he would inform his subordinates, and Berenar if need be, that he had been suddenly taken ill. The matter of the Silkworkers’ District had waited fifty years. It could wait another day.

Another long interval of earnest effort left him standing before the hearth, wearing a dressing-robe and carrying the seed-befouled items in his arms. They blazed merrily upon the logs, and if the smoke was a little rank, Setheris was unable to give a damn. He settled himself heavily back in his chair and poured himself the last glass of metheglin for the evening. He might or might not remember _this night_ once he was sober. He saw no reason to be sober, or to be capable of dreaming, for many hours to come.


End file.
